


here i am leaving you clues,

by moonswinger



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: (kind of), Breaking Up & Making Up, Crying During Sex, Enjolras Is Bad At Communicating, Enjolras Is Bad At Feelings, Friends With Benefits, Getting Together, Grantaire is a Mess, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Blow Jobs, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mild Sexual Content, Not Actually Unrequited Love, POV Enjolras, Pining Grantaire, Sad Grantaire, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:06:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23614945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonswinger/pseuds/moonswinger
Summary: "Even though Grantaire keeps his secrets, he lets Enjolras see him during rare times, and Enjolras is both undeniably frightened and privately enraptured by them.Those moments, however, do nothing to prepare him for this."or: enjolras and grantaire are friends with benefits and things get real (big yikes)
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 122





	here i am leaving you clues,

**Author's Note:**

> title from richard siken's “snow and dirty rain”

Enjolras isn’t used to love. And not in the least in the way Grantaire loves him. He knows, he _knows_ Grantaire loves him, because even though he’s never said it aloud, he wears his heart on his paint-splattered sleeve. It’s in the way he looks at Enjolras in awe when he’s doing something as unextraordinary as buttering a toast. It’s in the way he cracks a smile whenever Enjolras half-heartedly glares at him mid-fight, or when he strokes Enjolras’ hair distractedly as they lie in bed, calls Enjolras out when he’s being particularly stubborn, presses kisses on his shoulder as a silent _goodnight_ whenever he leaves, never, not once expects more from Enjolras than he is willing to give, stares at him with open devotion as he takes him in his mouth -- oh, God, his _mouth_ . Enjolras is especially not used to having someone bare their soul to him. Even though Grantaire keeps his secrets, he lets Enjolras _see_ him during rare times, and Enjolras is both undeniably frightened and privately enraptured by them. 

Those moments, however, do nothing to prepare him for this. 

Grantaire is lying on his back, his head turned to the side and almost buried in the pillow. His legs tremble lightly as Enjolras shimmies his way up from between them, determined to kiss his lips, delighted when the warm, dewy soft skin of Grantaire’s stomach touches his own. It’s only when he nudges at Grantaire’s jaw and Grantaire refuses to look at him, that he’s pulled from his occupied mind and notices the wet streaks along Grantaire’s eyes. He freezes, unsure of what he’s done. 

“Grantaire?” he tries, in a whisper that sounds much less soft than it is intended. His throat is still getting used to the sudden lack of Grantaire’s cock in it. 

Grantaire doesn’t respond, but releases a shaky breath, squeezing his eyes shut as he trembles beneath him. Enjolras is all the more alarmed, any thoughts of relief quickly replaced by concern and doubt. Grantaire had been fine mere minutes earlier, when he’d called Enjolras things of both sweet and filthy nature and when he’d fucked his throat raw like Enjolras had begged him to and when he’d spent inside him with a delicious gasp, his fingers flexing in Enjolras’ hair. Enjolras racks his brain to recall what had gone wrong, and comes up with nothing. 

He doesn’t mean to be forceful, but tightens his grip on Grantaire’s jaw and turns his face away from the pillow. Grantaire relents, his chest still rising and falling heavily as though he’s trying to keep something inside from bursting out. His eyes are still tightly shut, doing nothing to prevent tears from escaping them. Enjolras doesn’t know what to do. He reaches hesitantly, to brush away the wetness from the sides of Grantaire’s eyes, presses his lips lightly to the spot. He tastes the salt, and sweat. 

Grantaire, startled, pulls away, but instead of going anywhere like Enjolras fears, he wraps his arms around Enjolras’ neck and buries his head in the crook of his shoulder and lets out a choked sob. Enjolras can do nothing but hold him.

When Grantaire’s shudders have lessened and his breathing is more even, Enjolras turns them so that he can lie beside him. The wet spot on his shoulder feels cool as the air touches it. Grantaire’s head ducks under his chin, hides itself in the middle of Enjolras’ chest, fingers still clutching to him as if he’s afraid to let go. “It’s okay,” Enjolras tells him, although his own voice sounds cold to his ears. 

They don’t talk about it in the morning. They can’t, because Grantaire is gone when he awakes, just as he is every morning after they get into bed. Enjolras doesn’t know if he should check on him, if Grantaire would rather not remember it. That doesn’t mean he stops thinking about it all through breakfast and the rest of the day, though. It makes him unhappy, it makes him feel wrong and guilty and dirty. It’s not often that Enjolras is struck amid breakfast with emotions of such weight that he no longer wishes to eat. 

Enjolras isn’t used to being struck helpless by emotions that are not anger. 

He finds himself at Grantaire’s door in the evening. When Grantaire opens the door, he is his usual self and none of the Grantaire he was the previous night. He grins wide when he sees Enjolras, surprised and delighted as if he’s seeing Enjolras after a month. 

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” he asks, ushering Enjolras inside. Enjolras frowns until he recalls that he rarely ever visits Grantaire. It’s usually the other way around. Grantaire’s smile is so jarring from the image of him last night, that Enjolras is overcome with emotion again, one he cannot place. He rushes forward to kiss him, and Grantaire chuckles “Oh,” in supposed realization before returning his kiss. 

“You could’ve called me,” Grantaire says between kisses, pushing Enjolras against the wall and throwing all pretense of innocence out the window. Enjolras wants nothing more than to feel his lips move against his, the precious warmth of his body close to his own, the insistent thigh nudged between his legs. “We should stop,” he manages to say, despite how quickly his body is reacting to this. Grantaire huffs, paying him no mind and dipping his head to press kisses along his jaw. His nibbles almost make Enjolras forget why he is there, his breath hitching as his traitorous hips buckle to seek friction on Grantaire’s thigh. 

It takes Grantaire’s fingers fumbling at the zip of his jeans for him to snap out of it. He bats Grantaire’s hand away, pushes at his chest lightly. “Grantaire,” he says, “We should stop.”

Grantaire’s smile doesn’t falter, but his next laugh sounds unsure of itself. “Okay?” he says, searching Enjolras’ eyes, “Do you want to head to the bedroom?”

Enjolras shakes his head, and Grantaire’s smile fades with disappointment replacing it. Enjolras takes a breath. “I mean, we need to stop - this. I don’t think we should see each other anymore.”

He’s expected the disappointment, but he hasn’t expected to be affected by the way Grantaire steps away with understanding, a little frown between his bushy eyebrows. “This is about last night,” he says, nodding once, seemingly retreating into himself as he holds his own arm awkwardly.

Enjolras isn’t used to breaking hearts so deliberately. “It’s not fair,” he admits, his voice small. “It’s not fair to you.”

Grantaire scoffs, turning his gaze from Enjolras. “It was never fair,” he corrects. Enjolras knows he’s right. This arrangement had always been more profitable to Enjolras than it must have been to Grantaire. 

“I’m sorry,” is all he can manage to say. 

He half expects Grantaire to debate this. He expects Grantaire to argue, like he always does, to brush it off and say that last night he’d cried for a different reason, that there was no need to stop whatever they had. But Grantaire only stands there, like he knows he’s right. Enjolras realizes that he _wants_ Grantaire to protest.

He realizes there is nothing else left to say.

When he’s alone outside in the hallway of Grantaire’s apartment building later, he feels empty instead of relieved. He makes his way to his own apartment, hoping to feel a sense of rightness any second now, hoping to feel the heavy emotions that had plagued him all day to vanish. Why hadn’t they vanished? 

Maybe it is because he tells himself how he should be feeling repeatedly that he begins sometime in the next three days to believe it. He feels okay, nothing different than he’d always been. 

He’s on the phone with Courfeyrac as he stands in queue for a coffee, who vaguely mentions that the posters are ready to be distributed. Posters that were made by Grantaire. _He feels okay._

It’s Wednesday and Grantaire shows up late to the meeting, catching Enjolras’ eye and flashing him an apologetic smile before slipping into the corner booth. _He feels okay._

He’s scrolling through his phone in the middle of the night because he can’t sleep and Grantaire messages him to go to bed. _He feels okay._

His friends are at his apartment and Bahorel comes out of the bathroom laughing out loud that there’s at least three types of lube in there and Grantaire turns a faint shade of red, avoiding Enjolras’ eyes instead of flashing him a cheeky grin like Enjolras knows he would have, had things been different. _He’s okay._

He’s on his bed later that night, unfocused on the essay he’s supposed to be writing, when he suddenly realizes how much he misses Grantaire. He’s not always in tune with his emotions, but he knows now that he misses Grantaire more than he should. He wants him there, lying next to him. He knows that he hasn’t felt right ever since that night, that he’s been pretending all this time. 

The realization keeps him up all night. It’s been weeks since he’s been kissed by Grantaire. It’s been so long since he’s even been alone with Grantaire. He’s missed talking to him, he’s missed his silly jokes, the speckles of paint on his skin, his arguments, the smell of his cologne, his _everything._

When he tells Grantaire as much the next morning, standing once again in the middle of his shoe-box apartment, only this time with more distance between them, Grantaire’s expression gives nothing away. 

He tries again. “I think - What I’m trying to say is, I want you back.” He’s ashamed at his lackluster explanation and choice of words, but he’s rendered speechless under Grantaire’s expectant gaze. How strange that he should be anxious in front of one man who obviously loves him, when he has produced more than daring spontaneous speeches in front of crowds of strangers that definitely hated him for merely existing. 

“I think I like you too,” he admits, finally. “I’ve liked you all this while and I’ve been stupid enough to think that I hadn’t. You drive me crazy in the best possible sense of the word, Grantaire. Please, would you take me back? Would you give me a chance to - to love you like I should have all this time?” 

He’s rambling. “I don’t know if I’m - if you understand -” He’s cut short by Grantaire stepping to embrace him and to be in his arms, it feels like home. Grantaire pulls away far too quickly, but never out of reach and it’s worth it because Enjolras can now see his beaming smile. He’s so beautiful. 

“I love you too, Enjolras,” he whispers like he’s indulging Enjolras with a secret. A secret that says he’s known Enjolras’ feelings long before Enjolras had recognized them himself. Enjolras is overcome by that emotion that he’s now very well familiar with, one that he can name easily and not feel frightened by the heavy weight of. 

He kisses Grantaire, feeling as giddy as a schoolboy when he breaks away to ask Grantaire the question he’s been dying to ask. “Will you be my boyfriend?”

Grantaire lets out a laugh so incredibly his own that Enjolras needs a moment to recover from it alone. “Yes,” he says. “If you’ll be mine.”


End file.
